mi ^st- 







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9 ^ 



SONGS 
EAST AND 



WEST 



LEONARD KINGSLEY SMITH 



y V) 



c. a S 






^ 1909 



nk foreword 

,^^ The verses in this little volume are published with- 

'^ out expectation and without apology. Written 



iX 



J chiefly for my own amusement, and at odd moments, 

they are but mere meanderings along the borderland 
of poetry and imagination. It has chanced that they 
have excited the interest of others who have ventured 
upon the same frontier, and now and then a wish has 
been expressed to me that they might be put into 
more permanent form. Should they bring a few 
moments of pleasure to any who may read them, 
their publication will, to the writer at least, seem to 
have been justified. 
Huron, S. D., March, 1909. 



CONTENTS 

Frontier and Army Songs. 

The Mountaineers 3 

On One Found Dead on the Plains 4 

The Western Braggart 5 

The Outlaw's Death 6 

The Law of the Land 7 

In Explanation 8 

The Broncho 9 

The Artillery Advance 10 

Outdoor Men 11 

The Cavalry Expedition 12 

The Red Man 13 

The Cow Pony 14 

Soldier, Soldier IS 

The Raw Recruit 17 

The Sentry 19 

The Volunteer -.,...; 21 

Taps .Jr. 23 

Reveille 25 

The Dying Race 27 

The Stampede 28 

Sonnets. 

Never the Wild, Free Joy Again 31 

vi 



High Noon 32 

In Absence 33 

Moonrise 34 

Oh, Not in Suppliant Guise 35 

Give Me Content 36 

Songs From Laurelle, the Jester. 

Rose Leaves 39 

Rondeau 40 

Kings and Queens 41 

God Wot 44 

Love's But a Thing Apart 46 

We Hide Our Hearts 48 

John A Dreams 50 

The Ballad of Tom McElroy 53 

It is Good to be Sad 56 

To One in Absence 58 

The Lyrist 59 

But She is Dead 60 

Loneliness 51 

In the Woods by theSea 62 

My Hero 63 

Lines 64 

To Hope 65 

Spring in Exile 67 

Lassie 70 

At the Window 73 

Gift O' God 76 

Rejection 78 



vii 



With Madge in May 80 

The Wild Rose 81 

All the World's a Stage S3 

The Dirge O' Mary Donohue 87 

To Fancy 91 

Lost Lake 93 

The Spirit of It 101 

At the Races 102 



FRONTIER AND ARMY SONGS 



THE MOUNTAmEERS. 

These are the silent men of earth 

Who have looked on Nature's naked heart, 
And have heard the voice of the Infinite 

Which speaks to those who dwell apart. • 
They have dreamed the dreams of solitude, 

Have seen its glories and felt its pain ; 
They alone know the secrets of ultimate truth, 

But their hearts shall never be light again. 



ON ORE FOUND DEAD ON THE PLAINS. 

When I have Hved my time, I care not 

Whether my grave be fair or ill ; 
Oft marble vaults hold those who dare not, 

And the brave take the sod with a right good 
will. 

I ask no tears to mark my passing, 

Let none write epitaphs for me ; 
Let those who fear have all the massing, — 

He craves no prayers who dies soul free. 

Life is enough, if it be a brave one, 

And should need no commemorative stone ; 

Unless my friends in their hearts engrave one, 
I am best forgot, and should rest unknown 



THE WESTERN BRAGGART. 

"The wise are silent," — 

That was in a by-gone age! 
For a glib tongue is the surest means 

To win renown on the modern page. 
The city gallant or the desert chief 

Once in his heart his brave deeds hid, 
But he who would make a name today 

Must claim the praise for what others did. 



THE OUTLAW'S DEATH. 

Mine was the life, as mine is the death, 
And you, at the end, are the fools, 

Who never drew a generous breath 
Not circumscribed by rules. 

Evil is evil, — but though you be good, 

A live emotion you never had ; 
And of course you always do as you should, 

You're too stupid and weak to be bad! 



THE LAW OF THE LAND. 

So this is the last fight, boys? Perhaps. 

But there's byways to safety not found on 
the maps. 
For the end of a fight is not till the end, 

And there's always a chance — for a man — 
and a friend. 
At least we'll go out in a rattHng good game, 
And you'll kindly remember there's no one 
to blame, — 
Just different opinions, 'twixt red man and 
white, — 
And which ever wins, why, that one is right. 



IN EXPLANATION. 

To dwell in the midst of the infinite 

Ought to make a man subdued. 
But no man ever lived who was always just 
right 
And sometimes we get tired of being 
good. 
These wide reaching spaces, the}^ hold a man 
down 
From violence and abuse 
Till we're lonesome enough to go to town, 
And then — why, the devil is loose! 



THE BRONCHO. 

Tricky rascal, just a bluffer, 
Full of guile and crooked craft. 

Fooled his driver for a duffer, 

Seemed to work, and only laughed. 

When he's weary of the road, sir, 
All at once he goes dead lame. 

When he's pulling all the load, sir, 
He is bluffing just the same. 

When he's gentle, and you trust him, 
He has mischief in his head ; 

When at last you plan to bust him, 
Blame the pesky brute, he's dead. 



THE ARTILLERY ADVANCE. 

Yes, we're wanted up ahead, — 

That's the order, and we're to heed it. 
We've got to earn our daily bread, 

Though mabye some of us won't need it. 
Some day we'll read about it all, 

Get praised for a hero, or blamed for a fool ; 
But just now we're to answer a hurry-up call,- 

No time for opinions, — get up there, mule! 



10 



OUTDOOR MEN. 

You to your books, and plays and dance, 

And we to the woods and hills, 
You to the maids whose looks entrance. 

And we to the chattering rills. 
You with' the learning, and clothes and airs, 

And your problems of how to begood, — 
But ours, when all's said, is the life that wears 

And only we have understood. 



11 



THE CAVALRY EXPEDITION. 

Just ride and ride and ride 

For foes that hide and hide, 

With the dust in your throat, and the sun on 

your head 
And sometimes a bullet to drop you dead — 

And that is the life of a soldier. 

Just search and search and search 
Till your horses stumble and lurch, 
Through a dry hot land 'neath a dry hot sky, 
In the wake of half-breed guides that lie,— 
And that is the life of a soldier. 

Just to taste of a fight and a horrible din, 
And we've got 'em at last, and gathered 'em in, 
And we bring them back to the agency, 
And take their promise, and set them free» 
And that is the life of a soldier. 



12 



THE RED MAN. 

You have fought us, and taught us, 
And at last you have brought us 

To a hfe that we don't understand. 
You have fooled us, and schooled us, 
And by culture have ruled us 

Almost off the face of the land. 

You have whipped us, and stripped us, 
Of our wings you have clipped us; 

From barbarians we are grown wise. 
From rudeness and lewdness 
You have trained us to goodness. 

And of goodness the Indian dies! 



13 



THE COW PONY. 

A fearless man and a faithful beast 

Are two of the noblest works of God ; 
But who shall say which of the two shall be 
least 

When both are beneath the sod? 
There'll be blotches enough on the fearless man 

And the deeds he has tried to do. 
His wickedness close to his virtue ran, — 

But a'"good horse is good all through. 



14 



SOLDIER, SOLDIER. 

Oh, the soldier lad is mostly bad, 

Or at least so we've been told, sir; 
And they take us from the dregs, and 
they put us on our legs, 
And they make us staunch and bold, sir. 
For we're worked, praise God, in the awkward 
squad. 
Till our backs and arms go lame, sir: 
Our ways, they are rough, and our feed it is 
tough. 
But we all of us like the game, sir. 
Chorus: — 

Then it's soldier, soldier, soldier. 

He's a lad without a home. 
He's a reckless youth, that's the honest ^truth. 

With a heart that's bound to roam. 
He's a worthless, shiftless lout, you say, 
But when bullets fly, why then you pray 
For the soldier, soldier, soldier. 

15 



Soldier, Soldier 

Oh, we learn to drill with a right good will, 

Till we're sure and trim at last, sir, 
For the guard house gets every one who forgets 

The things he has learned in the past, sir. 
And there's nothing that we need, but our 
clothes and our feed, 

And our lives, of course, are bright, sir, 
They say we never work, — but we know we 
never shirk 

A chance to die in a fight, sir. 

Then it's soldier, soldier, soldier. 

He's a lad whose heart is true 
And he fills his chink in the world, we think, 
. As well, perhaps, as you. 
He's hard and tough, but he doesn't brag. 

And is glad of a chance to die for the flag 
As a soldier, soldier, soldier. 



16 



THE RAW RECRUIT. 

Oh, he is the sport and the life of his mess, 

The rooky, God bless him — we love him, 
The boy that we fondle and kiss and caress. 

And if he objects, why, we shove him. 
The captain, he hates him, the sergeant 
berates him. 

The corporal borrows his pay; 
And we who rank with him, it's trouble we 
give -him 

He'll remember for many a day. 

Chorus: — 

Then here's to the rooky, why look'e, a cookie, 

A joke, and a babe, and a lamb. 
We take him, and shake him, we break him, 
and make him 
A soldier of Old Uncle Sam. 



17 



THE RAW RECRUIT. 

When pranks are discovered, he's always to 
blame, 

The rooky, poor devil, he suffers. 
And he is the scapgoat of every wild game 

That tickles us poor soldier duffers. 
His manners are mulish, his pate it is foolish, 

Yet strangely to say, he is proud ; 
But if we don't brain him, at last we can train 
him 

To be like the rest of the crowd. 



18 



THE SENTRY. 

To hear the tinkling of guitars, 

And have to walk his beat, sir. 
While overhead are my raid stars. 

And all the night is sweet, sir, 
Is the work the soldier has to do. 

And it hardly seems just fair, sir, 
That he must pace the long hours through 

And be too proud to care, sir. 

The women laugh, the music swells, 

And you hear the cHnk of glasses. 
And the lust of life within you wells, — 

And the time, how slow it passes! 
It is tramp and tramp, on the same old path 

And you must not dream, nor think, sir, 
And you must not sigh, and you must not laugh, 

Is it strange, when we're through, that we 
drink, sir. 



19 



THE SENTRY, 

The music dies, the night grows chill, 

And all the earth is sleeping ; 
The stars fade out, — but the soldier still 

His lonely watch is keeping. 
You dream in peace of summer skies 

While he keeps watch and ward, sir. 
And fights the slumber from his eyes, 

All steadfastly on guard, sir. 



20 



THE VOLUNTEER. 

Oh, the rythmic beat of the swinging feet, 
And the bouyant pride of our joyous stride , 

And the pulse-throb's thrill within us! 
Oh, the street all lined with faces kind, 
And the ringing cheers as our column nears 

And the din of drum and trumpet. 

For we're off to the front and the firing line, 
And our hearts are full of the war-god's wine, 

And we care not what betide us! 
"Heads up! Eyes front!" What need the call? 
For the lust for the strife is in us all, — 
Oh,we're off for the wars, and we love the cause, 

And our stalwart hopes shall guide us! 

Ohi the nervous beat of the hurrying feet ; 
And the dull delay in the twilight gray. 

With the mist wrapped fields before us. 
Oh, the blood-red dawn of the battle's morn. 
And the snarling ping that the bullets sing, 

Then the charge, oh, the charge — God shield 



21 



THE VOLUNTEER. 

For we're out on the front and the firing line, 
And our hearts are full of the war-god's wine, 

And the smoke-wreaths reek around us. 
We are up to our knees in mud and slime. 
But we're splattering through it at double time. 
Oh, we're mad with the wars, for we love the 
cause, 

And the hoped-for hour has found us! 

Oh the dull, slow beat of the weary feet. 
And the gaping blanks in our tattered ranks, 

And the anxious faces peering! 
And the vision sweet of the dear old street, — 

And the aching wound, and the dull heart's 
bound, — 
And the crowd — dear God, they're cheering! 

For we're back from the front and the firing line 
And our hearts are full of the war-god's wine. 

And we've drunk of its joys and weeping. 
Oh, we've drunk of it, body and dregs and all, 
And some of it's honey, and part is like gall, 
And we drank of it deep — and some fell asleep — 

And we left them yonder, sleeping. 

22 



TAPS. 

"Taps, taps," the bugles blow, 

Through the hush of evening, sweet and 

slow 
Calm and sure, 
Clear and pure, 
Floating light, 
All the night, 
With peace they fill. 

Till we creep, 

Into sleep, 
And are still. 

"Taps, taps," the bugles call. 

Bringing a soothing peace to all. 

Heaven has sent 

Sweet content. 

Let no fears. 

Cares nor tears 

Bring thee ill. 

May thy rest 

Make thee blest; 
Be thou still. 



23 



TAPS. 

"Taps,"taps,'' the bugles blow, 
Blowing calmly sad and slow. 
At the grave j 

Of the brave 
Bow thy head 
O'er the dead, 
'Tis God's will. 

Do not weep ; 

He doth sleep, 
And is still. 



24 



REVEILLE. 

When the wild, wild clarion is loudly, loudly 

blaring. 
And the red fires of dawn in the east are blodly 

flaring, 
Arise ye, arise, for the day, the day is speeding. 
To brave deeds and true its moments should be 

leading, 

Arise, for the dawn has come! 

Though thy dreams be all golden, and slumber 
sweet enfold ye. 

Ah, heed ye the tale that the bugle shrill has 
told ye; 

For the fabric of dreams is but idle, vain con- 
triving. 

And the joys that are true are in honest, 
sturdy striving ; 

Arise, for the dawn has come. 



25 



REVEILLE. 

Though weary and sore your toil and strife 
have made ye, 

And the cold shafts of pain with anguish sharp 
have paid ye, 

Arise, for the high road is stretching white be- 
fore ye. 

Ah, heed ye the call of the stalwart land that 
bore ye; 

Arise, for the dawn has come. 



26 



THE DYING RACE. 

For ages long they lived content, 

Untaught, barbaric, free. 
They lived on what the good God sent, 

And loved their misery. 
But Destiny has interfered, 

And crushed them in her hand. 
Their happiness has disappeared, 

And gone is all their land. 

The joys they loved, the plains they roved 

No longer they would prize ; 
The white man near their lodges moved, 

And opened their dull eyes. 
"With drink and "chink" and ornament 

He's taught them they are brave ; — 
And incidentally has sent 

Them hastening to the grave. 



27 



THE STAMPEDE. 

Galloping cattle, that pass with a rattle, 

A roar, and a crashing of hoof and of horn. 
Life with a zest in it, and for the rest of it. 

Look out for yourself, there's no time to 
mourn. 
All in the thick of it, maybe you're sick of it; 

Lord, what of that, so long as they run! 
What does it matter, boys, while the hoofs 
clatter, boys, 

Which of us dies, so long as it's fun. 



28 



SONNETS. 



SONNETS. 

Never the Wild, Free Joy Again. 

Never the wild, free joy again, — the dreams 
May be as fair, as sweet may be the song, 
And through far brighter hours the day pro- 
long 
Its tenderness, with gladdest, richest beams, 
But ne'er the wild, free joy again; a sadness 
seems 
To lie about each sweetness, and the prong 
Of sorrow pierce the memories that throng 
The wayward heart, however bright their 

gleams. 
Never the wild, free joy, — and better so! 

Light hearted mirth and merriment are kind 

To those whose care-free spirits brook no 

fears. 

But I have searched the heart of life, and know 

Its preciousness too well, — and so must find 

The revel empty, and God's truth in tears. 



31 



High Noon. 

It is high noon, — a thronging city street, 

The din and roar of thousand varied sounds, 
A pulse of teeming life that throbs and bounds , 
A myraid tongues, a myraid rushing feet; 
A swirling chaos, full of noise, replete 

With 'wildered passions, laughter, joys, 

hopes, wounds, 
Till tense nerves quiver, and the fierce blood 
pounds 
Through head and hand and heart at every beat. 
A change, a pause, a half -felt hush, a calm ; 
A sudden silence swelling through the crowd ; 
A breath of peace, come like an unasked 
boon; 
A quietude falls on the jostling swarm; 

The sounds serener grow, though still as loud ; 
The tumult seems to rest — it is high noon. 



32 



In Absence — To Chas. Wesley Hobbs. 

These three long years away, — three long dead 
years 

Of cheerless, weary, lonely nights and days, 

Slow worn away apart ; a ceaseless maze 
Of emptiness, vain hopes, and unshed tears. 
But let us think no more of vanished fears, — 

What boots it now to brood on sorrow's ways ? 

My soul's athirst for you ; and Heaven plays 
Her old delicious music in my ears. 
O, they shall come again, those golden times 

Of brotherhood. Our night of life is done ! 
E'en now the morning breaks, and up- 
wards climbs 
A cloudless sky ; and look, where bursts the sun ! 

'Tis day again ; and deep within my heart 
I know that we shall dwell no more apart. 



33 



Fair shines the quiet night; the gracious moon 

Rises majestic, beautiful, and still. 
Tranquility, worn nature's dearest boon 

Now rests on field and city, wood and rill. 
Shimmering in soft cadences, each star 

Dances in noiseless joy. The distant hill 
In faint, mysterious beauty rises far. 

The emblem of God's mighty, constant Will. 
'Tis in such peaceful hours it speaks most clear, 

Whispering gently through the perfumed air 
Such thoughts as make the heart more duti- 
ful; 
Man ponders o'er the past, no more with fear. 

Forgetful of its storms, and finding there 
Such joys as make all hfe seem beautiful. 



34 



Oh Not in Suppliant Guise. 

Oh, not in suppliant guise, with downcast heart 
Would I protest myself thy willing slave. 
'Tis not thy pity that my soul doth crave, 
Nor as thy bond-slave would I choose my part. 
But let me come to thee all stalwartly, 
Trustful and frankly, asking only this, — 
Thy comradeship and faith, the truer bliss 
That puts no bar of self 'twixt me and thee. 
Nor hollow sentiments and yearning sighs, 
Nor selfish fears and doubts if love be love, — 
Not these the offering I would bring to 
thee; 
To feel thy help in each day's enterprise. 

And know myself grow stronger for thy love, 
Is all I ask, nor ought to ask else, from 
thee. 



35 



Give Me Content. 

Give me content, dear Lord; I woiild not ask 
The pomp of place, nor lavish new delight; 
Give me to know the worth of things I slight. 
And from life's simpler joys to take the mask. 
I crave not 'mid rich luxuries to bask. 

Nor with wealth's vain display to blind my 

sight ; 
Let me exult when summer skies are bright. 
And learn the glory of the common task. 
Give me no gold, but let me prize my friends, 
Send me no fame, but let my deeds be true; 
And may kind words and thoughts out- 
weigh renown. 
Teach me the gladness that the daybreak sends 
To bird, and stream, and flower, and drop of 
dew, 

Give me a brave, true heart, content, my 
own! 



36 



SONGS FROM LAURELLE THE JESTER 



FROM "LAURELLE THE JESTER." 

Rose Leaves 

The rose that blossomed yesterday- 
Is gone, alas, is gone. 

Its petals white have blown away 
And left behind a thorn. 

The joy that warms our hearts today 
Must leave, alas, must leave; 

It were but vain to bid it stay, 
And vainer still to grieve. 



39 



What joy were mine, ah, love, what joy we re 

mine, 
If in the garden of thy heart, where shine 
Thy thoughts Hke fair bright blossoms, there 

might be 
Some little corner set apart for me! 
If when unto life's cup of sparkhng wine 
To sip delight thy ruddy lips incline, 
Within its gleam thou might'st some glint 

divine 
To lead me back into thy memory, 

What joy were mine! 
Not mine, alas, — ah, no, not mine 
E'en thus to share such happiness as thine. 
Yet could I know that in some revery 
One glad and shining thought thou had'st of me, 
Nay, not for richest kingdoms I'd resign 

Such joys as mine. 



40 



Kings and Queens. 

Kings and queens, kings and queens, 

Ah, would that I might live as they, 
With silks and gems and golden sheens, 

And ne'er a man to cry me nay! 
What joys must on their hours attend, 

To whom fate proves thus bountiful, 
And every clime of earth doth lend 

Some added splendor to their rule,^ . 

While I must put my wits to school 

In brain-sick wise to play the fool 
To kings and queens. 
Kings and queens, kings and queens, — 

Why should they hold this boundless sway, 
While I, were mine but half their means, 

Might fill a throne as well as they? 
The head, the heart, the hand are mine, 

Which stir their mirth and win them fame, 
And when their courts with revel shine, 

'Tis I, forsooth, who plan the game 

For gorgeous youth and gracious dame, 
41 



KINGS AND QUEENS. 

Yet I in motley am the same 
As kings and queens. 

Kings and queens, kings and queens, 
With ermine robe and broidered gown. 

For whom not all their power gleans 

On brave, true thought to call their own. 

With rich array and showy art 

They would their empty lives disguise, — 

'Tis they, God wot, who play the part. 
And I alone, the fool, am wise. 
And though I sport in slavish guise, 
For me are joys that would surprise 
E'en kings and queens. 

Kings and queens, kings and queens. 
For them the glory, pride and gold; 

For me the blue sky, woods, and greens. 
And a soul that's neither bought nor sold. 

What boots it, if with merry heart 

For them I sport in cracked brained jest? 

42 



KINGS AND QUEENS. 

Within one still may live apart 
And e'en a fool dwell with the blest. 
A bit of sport gives life a zest, — 
Let me laugh on, and yield the rest. 
To kings and queens. 



43 



God Wot 

God wot, God wot, what a life is mine, 
With a jest, and a laugh and a song ; 
For the jester is a fellow whose heart is always 
mellow. 
Should his life run smooth or wrong. 
For though grief may start in the depths of his 

heart 
He still must play a merry, merry part, — 
God wot, what a life is mine. 

God wot, God wot, for life and death. 

We are all but fools at the end. 
And when we laugh the most we're but mourn- 
ers at the toast. 
With grief for a steadfast friend. 
And the gayest of the gay, in the midst of the 

play, 
Hides a world of woe in a roundelay, — 

God wot, for life and death. 
God wot, God wot, what means it all 
The laughs, and the hopes and the tears, 
44 



The lives that are crushed, and the songs that 
are hushed, 
In the endless tramp of the years? 
And the treasures that we prize are but dross 

to the wise. 
And none but the fool knows the truth from 
the lies, — 
God wot, what means it all? 



45 



Love's But a Thing Apart. 

Oh, love is but a thing of dreams, 

Sing ha, sing ho, for a merry, merry heart. 
To fill an idle hour, it seems, 

Sing ha, sing ho, for its barbed dart. 
For a man must strive, and a man must moil. 

In palace, field, or mart. 
And the best of hfe, when'tis done, was its toil, 

And love's but a thing apart. 

For what boots love, with realms to gain? 

Sing ha, sing ho, let love go by. 
There be shining deeds and pleasures vain, 

Sing ha, sing ho, and let love die. 
So quaff thy cup, be it joy or woe. 

With a jest at a breaking heart ; 
For the sun still shines as bright, I trow, 

Tho' love's but a thing apart. 

How moulders fame as the 3^ears go by, 
Sing ha, sing ho, as the days fly past, 
And kingdoms totter, and joys run dry, 
46 



LOVE S BUT A THING APART. 

Sing ha, sing ho, for love at last. 
With death at thy side, like a mist-garbed wraith 

How fade thy pride and art, 
And when all turns dust, poor love keeps faith, 

Tho' love's but a thing apart. 



47 



WE HIDE OUR HEARTS. 

We hide our hearts ; with eloquence and wit 
We waste our words on themes of Httle worth, 

And gems of shining imagery we fit 

To hollow platitudes and tawdry mirth , — 
But hide our hearts. 

With tripping tongues and glibly wanton lips 

We dress in splendid phrase vain mockeries. 
The soul may burst with joy, be scourged with 
whips. 
But we prate on of idle vanities, 
And hide our hearts. 

And loathly things we deck in regal speech. 
And turn a jest upon the world's distress, 

Abhorrant lies in epigrams we teach , 
But thoughts we prize the most we ne'er confess, 
And hide our hearts. 

Afflction strikes our souls to death; — we 
smile ! 
Remorse eats at our hearts; — A brilliant jest! 
48 



WE HIDE OUR HEARTS. 

We seek the garish crowd, and all the while 
We feel the canker gnawing at our breast — 
We hide our hearts. 

Upward and ever upward soars the soul 

To realms of beauty and undying truth. 
But still the tongue of clods and dross takes 
toll, 
And with each word tastes bitterness and ruth : 
We hide our hearts. 



49 



JOHN A DREAMS. 

Give me my dreams. It matters not to you 
If I should spend ray life for tinselled dross,— 

I envy not the brave things that you do, 
And to my eyes 'tis you who bear the loss. 

You fain would tell me of life's fragrant wine, 
And shining hopes of glorious emprise, — 

And once, perchance, this self-same creed was 
mine. 
And I am not a poor vain fool, but wise. 

I too have smelt the perfume of the rose, 

And breathed the splendor of the Qashuig 
dawn. 
Have felt each joyous t]irill the spirit knov/s, — 
Tell me, could you still dream if these were 
gone? 

And you would stake yoti all on this or that, 
Wherein I pray for you a rich reward ; 

But blowing bubbles is the work I'm at, 

Nor care a groat who scorn nor who applaud. 
SO 



JOHN A DREAMS. 

Nor pity me. Why, friends, I am not sad, 
And would not, if I could, exchange one 
dream 

For all the golden things that make you glad, — 
Although I know them better than 3-e deem. 

Keep ye to your own faith, and give me mine, 
And let each follow phantoms as he will. 

Am I to blame for eyes not made Hke thine? 
Or that I value what to you seems ill? 

Your Heaven lies in winning to your goal, 
And day by day ye reckon up the cost. 

But from the meanest clod I take m}' toll. 
And Heaven came to m.e because I lost. 

When one has failed, and grieved, and then 
grov.m calm. 

The faith that comes, if any, will abide, — 
A quiet happiness without alarm, 

That to the unwrung spirit is denied. 

51 



JOHN A DREAMS. 

And so,God save you, friends, I dream, content; 

And I would beg you, go your ways in peace 
And if your path be that by which I went, 

May you too find at last this same surcease. 



52 



THE BALLAD OF TOM McELROY. 

Oh, he was the merriest broth of a boy 

The sun ever shone on in June, 
And in daytime he bubbled all over with joy, 

And at night he sang blithe to the moon. 
And Bridget, and Molly, and Maggie, and Kate 

He half tickled to death with his laughter. 
But never to anyone would he relate 

Which one of the four he was after, — 
This broth of a boy. 
Young Tom McElroy, — 

Sure, was ever there any one dafter. 

Now Bridget was buxom and fair and discreet, 

Molly proud and well backed with finances. 
And Maggie was modest and gentle and sweet, 

And Kate an arch creature of fancies. 
Staid Bridget he gained by the flatterer's art, 

Proud Molly by richness of dressing, 
Sweet Maggie with kisses he won to his heart. 

And Kate by his anguish distressing, — 
This Tom McElroy, 
53 



THE BALLAD OF TOM M ELROY. 

Such a merry, mad boy, — 
So clever and bold and caressing. 

But Bridget, she married a landed estate, 

Proud Molly, the son of a weaver, 
A dashing young officer ran off with Kate, 

xA.nd sweet Margaret died of a fever. 
And Tom McElroy but doubled his joy, — 

If it grieved him not one of us knew it ; 
Though often our intellects we would annoy 

To guess how the deuce he came through it — 
Poor Tom McElroy, 
The unfortunate boy, — 

Though, faith, he ne'er seemed to rue it. 

His laughter still rang out as blithe as the May, 
Bridget's children he charmed with his sing- 
ing, 
Molly's husband with guineas he helped on his 
way, 
And the praise of Kate's soldier set ringing : 

54 



THE BALLAD OF TOM m'bL&OY. 

And roses he planted on sweet Maggie's grave. 
And he smiled when their white blossoms 
came, 
And of sympathy never a word did he crave, 
But repelled it as if 'twere a shame, — 
Strange Tom McElroy, 
The merry, mad boy, 
And we're thanking the Lord for the same. 



55 



IT IS GOOD TO BE SAD. 

It is good to be sad sometimes, 
For then, when the heart is worn 

Unto blessed things the spirit climbs, 
That are kept for those that mourn. 

And often the heart aggrieved 

In its anguish may attain 
To happiness it ne'er conceived 

Until it dwelt with pain. 

He can never taste of hope 
Who lives untouched by fears, 

And we prize not kindness till we grope 
Through the dim gray land of tears. 

'Tis from sorrow's cup that we quaff 
The wine that warms the heart, 

And of love we never know^ the half 
Till we have felt its dart. 

'Tis the stricken heart that knows 
The worth of ecstacy; 
56 



IT IS GOOD TO BE SAD. 



And he who aye in bondage goes 
The joy of being free. 



57 



TO ONE m ABSEKCE. 

Sometimes when all the world is blithe and glad 
My heart is touched with sudden stress of 
pain, 

'Gainst which the sternest striving is in vain, 
And then I know that you, my dear, are sad. 

Sometimes when sullen, stubborn care annoys, 
And I would sit apart, and vainly brood, 
A quick delight thrills all the sluggish blood. 

And then God tells me that you, too, rejoice. 

Ah, dearest, by what strange and unseen ties 
God binds together those who dwell apart! 
The mind goes oft astray ; but to the heart 

Truth comes unsought, and it alone is wise. 



S8 



THE LYRIST. 

Had I the passoniate, inspired tongue 

With which old Petrarch sought his faith to 
prove, 
Could I but sing, as once the brave bards flung 

Their very souls into v/ild songs of love, — 
What were it worth, — with empty words to tell 

The exultant hopes that surge about my 
heart. 
If all the mad, impassioned speech which fell 

From my vain lips should find thee still apart ? 

Or might I, like the inspired harmonist, 

In sweet and holy music frame my thought. 
Till sordid hearts and stricken souls should list. 
Finding the solace they had vainly sought, — 
Nay, might I flood the world with that glad 
song, 
That unknown aria which the white stars 
sing,— 
It were but vain, the applause of all the throng, 
Save for one hope, — thy hushed voice, an- 
swering. 

59 



BUT SHE IS DEAD. 

To E. R. Aetat 13. 
Sometimes methinks I see her still, 
Her sunny face all gladly bright 
With joyfulness and laughter, till 

She fills my heart with warm delight, — 
But she is dead. 

The flowers she loved will bloom once more, 
The sunbeams will not fade nor change ; 

Her friends are grown blithe as before, 
And grief unto their hearts turns strange. 
But she is dead. . 

Day after day, without a tear 

The old things to the new give place. 

And e'er the rounding of a year 

Our last year's steps grow hard to trace, 
And she is dead. 

Aye, she is dead, and we pursue 
The old accustomed paths of yore; 

But I, yea, whatso'er I do. 

One joy shall come to me no more, — 
For she is dead. 

60 



LONELmESS. 

Long since, o'er vasty wastes of barren plain 
Companionless I ranged, nor did complain, 
Or toiling up through gorge and glen, I stood 
A lone intruder on the multitude 
Of broken crags and beetling peaks 
Where nothing ever speaks. 
Except the voice of God's eternal solitude — 
Yet never felt alone. 

But when in voiceful, throng-clogged city- 
streets, 

Unknown I pace, and all the ceaseless tide 
Of faces scan for one that answering greets 

Me back with smiles, — and still unsatisfied 
Search on, and know I have no part 
In any life, or any heart, 

And that these myriad folk are things to me 
denied, 

Ah, then God speaks not, and I am alone! 



61 



m THE WOODS BY THE SEA. 

All day, with stale unprofitable thought 
I've played a shifting game with destiny; 

Much pondering on what I am and ought 

And nursed long hours of blank philosophy. 

All day, aloft, the glad, rougli winds have flung 
The tree tops 'round in boisterous revelry; 

And as they danced, it seemed as if they sung 
Of stirring deeds, proclaimed exultingly. 

Forever, yonder, 'cross these dull, gray sands 
Gleams joyously the ever-tossing sea. 

And beckons me to distant, fairer lands, 

AVhere many hands would reach to welcome 
me. 

I would be up, and in the tide of life 

Breasting the waves and buffeting the gale. 
Hold firm my course, and winning through the 
strife 
Tome safe to port, and hear the shoreward 
hail. 

62 



MY HERO. 

This WAS my hero — 0:13 v/no strong of heart 
And purpose, upright, souh'ui, thrust apart 
With conscious prowess from his chosen way 

Ths rocks of opposition, and strode on 
Intent, unv,^earied, till the glorious day 

When laurels crowned him, and the goal v/at; 
won. 

But one there came who, slow and feeble, crept 

O'er the same path o'er which my hero sv/ept. 

With torn and lacerated hands he strove 

To mount the barriers, and v/ith bleeding 

feet 

He left behind him ruddy stgins to prove 

His anguished toil, and each hour faced de- 
feat. 

No light of victory shone upon his brow; 
Nor in his eyes did gleam of triumph glow. 
Yet faltering not, upon his face a smile 

All calm and sweet, he kept his v/eary road 
Without lament or curse, mile after mile. 

And won at last his guerdon with his blood. 

63 



LINES. 

The heart that hides its shattered hopes 

Beneath a winning smile, 
The Hfe that in the darkness gropes 

And sings a song the while, 
Cheats fate of what fate claimed its own, 

And snatches joy from pain, 
And in the lives around grown 

Rebuilds itself again. 



64 



TO HOPE. 

Wait and hope, — when half the world 
In chaos seems around thee hurled, 
Tho' love and joy and peace are fled, 
And e'en ambition's fires are dead. 
Grieve not, but toil along thy path, 
Keep clean thy heart from hate and wrath 
Wait and hope,— though hard and slow 
Thy toihng will seem shorter 



so. 



Wait and hope, — when sullen fears 
Assail the cherished dreams of years, 
When doubt and sorrow, unconfined, 
Stalk through the anguish of thy mind, 
Yield not thy soul to blank despair, 
But striving on, choke out thy care; 
Wait and hope, — for those who plod 
Sometimes walk nearest to their God. 

So sure as day succeeds to night 
So shalt thou triumph in the fight. 

65 



TO HOPE. 

The very clouds that shroud thy skies 

With darkness and despondencies 

May, while thou think'st thy life accurst, 

Into the sunrise glories burst. 

What joys may then before thee ope. 

Full worth their price, — work on, and hope! 



66 



SPRING IN EXILE. 

Oh, yonder, yonder, yonder, 

Across the continent 
My wayward spirits wander, 

Seeking to find content. 

For the bursting springtime wants me, 
And from hills, and woods, and streams 

Comes a spectral voice that haunts me 
In wild, exultant dreams. 

Oh, ye barren peaks and prairies 

What is it that ye know 
Of the springtime's wild vagaries? 

Nothing, — only heat and snow. 

Look, where the barren yellow waste 

Puts on its paltry show 
Of flowers that bloom in haste 

Only to die and go. 

Look, where the ragged rocks, 

Striving to hide their bones. 
Put on a garb that mocks, 

Poor tawdry, fitful loans. 

67 



SPRING IN EXILE. 

Oh, let me smell the rich black earth, 
And the stirring salt sea wind ; 

And hear the tree tops dance in mirth ,- 
These be the ties that bind ! 

Oh, yonder, Nature laughs and weeps 
With a mood for every day; 

But here eternally she sleeps, 
As if too old to play. 

I want the old brown dory 

Out on the dancing sea, — 
What though you crags be hoary, — 

They tell no tale to me. 

I want the moon's soft sparkle 
On the river's placid breast. 

And the evening shades that darkle 
Where the cat bird builds his nest. 

I want the old green pasture land 
Where the lazy cattle browse. 

And where, by wanton breezes fanned, 
One can idly dream and drowse. 

68 



SPRING IN EXILE. 

Oh, yonder, with a thousand songs 
The warm earth palpitates ; 

And here, as if repaying wrongs 
She only desolates. 

'Tis spring, ' tis springtime yonder; 

I can feel its throbs and thrills, 
And night by night I ponder, 

And long for the old green hills. 



69 



LASSIE. 

Ah, lassie, — lassie that I love, 
Who hast aye been my dearie, 

Why wud ye seek my feith to prove, 
An' mak' my whole warld dreary? 

For you hae lo'ed me, ah, sae true. 
An' been sae dear to me, lass, 

As to the morning is the dew, 
An' lillies to the lea, lass. 

An' now, I mauna lo'e ye mair, 
An' ye'll nae mair lo'e me, — 

An' all the joys I'd wi ye share 
Lak cauld, dead clods maun be. 

For every sunny smile I see 
Will mind me o' yure ain, lass, 

The licht the gude God sent to me,— 
Tho' aye for me 'tis gaen, lass. 

An' oh, yure bonny, bonny e'e. 
That spoke the luv ye hid, lass. 

May look as chill as stane on me, — 
'Twill haunt me as it did, lass. 



70 



The sunlicht on'y shone for you, 

The posies seemed yure thoughts, dear, 
An' every braw thing that I knew, 

For my sweet lass 'twas wrought, dear. 
The warld, ye say, is fu' o' joys, 

Whereby I may forget ye, — 
Aye, let it kape its tinselled toys 

For them that hae nae met ye. 

An' let them kape their gold, an' leave 
Their fame for them that wants it, — 

Amid my past I'd rather grieve 
Wi' my sweet lass that haunts it. 

I'll gang my ways, sin' gang I maun. 

As brave as any ither. 
But I'll be mindin' night an morn. 

The hours we spent thegither. 

Ah, lassie, lassie, that I love. 

Can ye no ken the why, lass. 
The thought o' ye I'll no remove, — 

If it should pass, I'd die, lass. 

71 



The heart that canna grieve will brast, 
Or else, 'twill turn to stane, lass; 

Leave me my tears, unto the last 
To think o' ye, my ain lass. 



72 



AT THE WINDOW. 

Come to the window, sweet, and look with me 

Out into the vast and hushed immensity 

Of Heaven,— where bathed in all the radiant 

light 
Of God's own throne, across the silent night 
The myriad stars forever shine and sing 
Their holy hymns of joy unquestioning. 
Across these voids of space they call in song 
Each unto each, and not a star speaks wrong 
Nor ever yet has raised a note of tears, 
And their day of joy has been this thousand 

years. 

There is no beauty like to that of night. 

Nor any music like the stars' delight, 

Which soundless, changeless, through these ages 

long 
Has filled the skies with splendid, silvery song. 

And you and I,— ah, dearest, you and I, 
Who live and love our little while, and die? 
Why, what are we,— what is our faith and hope, 

73 



AT THE WINDOW. 

And this poor troubled world through which we 

grope 
Our way from naught to nothingness again 
For these brief years, a hundred, or but ten? 
The stars sang ere our birth, and still shall sing 
When we are gone, — our toil and suffering. 
Our joys and yearnings, e'en our truest prayers 
Aye count for nothing in this song of theirs. 
And even this our love, our holiest trust, 
Goes back, as all goes, at the last, to dust. 

Aye, dearest, — yet within thy tender eyes 
Find I a song unheard amid the skies ; 
For all these golden stars, how'er they sing, 
Ne'er knew the glory of this magic thing 
God gives to you and me — and all their light. 
That fills with splendor this majestic night 
Is pale and cold, for all their deathless life. 
Let us not mourn because we taste of strife, 
And they forever know no thought but bliss ; 
A thankless sky they fill with rhapsodies, 

74 



AT THE WINDOW. 

And whirl forever on, inexorably bound 
Unto one course, one law, one light, one sound. 
Lovers alone, within each other's eyes, 
May solve the riddles hidden from the wise, 
Know more of Heaven and the gladness there 
Than all the stars that are or ever were. 
And you and I. dear, even in our tears 
In one brief hour outlive their thousand years. 
'Tis we who are immortal, not these whirling 

suns. 
'Tis we who dwell in Heaven, with God's blessed 

ones. 



75 



GIFT 0' GOD. 

Oh, I hae seen the sun come up, 

And seen the sun gang doon, 
And I hae watched the fair clouds float 

Yon mountain tops aboon ; 
But nae in a' these Hchts sae braw. 

And nae in Heaven's blue 
Hae I seen aught that spoke o' God 

Like yure fair eyes sae true. 

Yure smile is like the glint o' dawn 

Upon the fragrant dew; 
Yure laugh is like the zephyr's song, 

That flits the tree tops through. 
Ye gang along the walks o' men 

Sae lichtsome and sae pure, 
As if through a' steps o' life 

Ye trod on Heaven's flure. 

Sae sair I need God's kindly help 
To mak' me staunch and true, 

76 



GIFT o' GOD. 

Yet wadna ask for ony aid 
But just the sicht o' you. 

For a' yure face is Heaven to me, 
To drive a' pain awa', 

And teach to me the luve o' God, 
That bides wi' us through a'. 



77 



REJECTION (?) 

I led her from the crowded dance, 

And seeking soft seclusion, 
Within a palm-arched, fern-hid nook 
Assumed my boldest, bravest look, 
And turned to her with careless glance, 

To hide my heart's confusion. 

But Cupid won! I told my love! 

I swore my love was deathless! 
Quoth I, "I am unworthy, — still, 
'Tis yours to make me what you will — 
If you could but return my love," — 

And pausing, waited, breathless! 

She drew away her dainty hand 
Before my own could reach it ; 
She tossed her pretty head aside. 
And e'en one look to me denied, — 
She spoiled the lesson I had planned 
E'er I began to teach it. 

78 



REJECTION (?) 

"Men say she pays with scorn men's love; 

Now on my head she'll heap it," 
Thought I, repenting of my haste, 
And of my passion, so misplaced. 
She spoke, — "I can't return your love. 

Because — I'd rather keep it." 



79 



WITH MADGE IN MAY. 

Beneath the apple trees in May 

With Madge I read the poets, 
Who told how knights did dragons slay 

And other brave exploits. 

"There are no dragons left today," 

I cried in deep dejection ; 
"The modern lover wins his way 

With flowers and confection." 

Madge laughed, — "What need great beasts to 
slay 

To win a maid's affection, 
If lovers would but make their way 

In spite of their rejection? 

"Yet modern maidens love brave men. 
And if you think you've missed her, 

'Tis time you showed your courage, then," — 
I took the hint, and kissed her! 

80 



THE WILD ROSE. 

In meadows rich and fragrant 

Sometimes thy face I greet, 
But oftener, like a vagrant, 

In the wildwood's cool retreat, 
Midst fern and stone and bramble 

Thou hid'st thy blushes sweet, 
Where none but loiterers ramble 

As fancy leads their feet. 

Sometimes in lonely byways 

Through barren pasture lands. 
Sometimes along the highways, 

Or by wastes of ocean sands ; 
Sometimes in rocky places 

With moss and lichens clad, 
Thy tender, modest graces 

Make all the summer glad. 

No high estate thou seekest. 

No proud, conspicuous place, 
But of all flowers the meekest 

81 



THE WILD ROSE. 

Show'st everywhere thy face. 
The thistle and the clematis 

Are oft friends most dear, 
And oft the garden's darling is 

Made glad to see thee near. 

No thought hast thou but sweetness. 

No dream but to be fair, 
Yet all the day's completeness 

Greatest unaware. 
No king who reigns in splendor 

Has half thy wondrous power, 
Nor e'er the richest lender 

Could boast thy generous dower. 



82 



ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE 

O, sing your merriest madrigal. 

Wild songsters of the morn! 
Turn on the white lights of the sun, 

With garnish beams adorn 
This, day's great festival! 

The dawn has come, the play's begun! 

Come, don thy costume, play thy part, 

Whatever words the wricer grants to thee; 

Strut in thy pride of place, or else, apart, 
Muse out alnoe thy heart's philosophy. 

The mystery of love, 

And fashion's comedy 
The pageantry of war, 

And toil's great tragedy, — 
The merry, half-in-earnest fool, 

Who lightens care with jest. 
The great, who drink at Fortune's pool 

Yet long for sest, 
The love-lorn youth, whose love is empty sighs, 

83 



ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE. 

The maid who knows not love, yet pines and 

dies, 
The vilHan, loving too, with evil wiles, 
The puffed up wit, who cuts, and kills, and 

smiles! — 
All these shall find to them due place assigned 

In the great drama's roll; 
And each, when he forgets his lines, shall find 

No prompter but the soul. 

Out of the sky night's curtains fall, 

And darken all the stage. 
The lines are spoke, the applause is Vv^on, — 

Turn down the page ! 
Sweet sleep reigns over all, 
The lights are out, the play is done. 

And one by one the players lay aside 

Their masks and lines, and are themselves 
again; 

Forgotten all their quips, their wrath, their 
pride, 
They sink to rest, and pass beyond our ken. 

84 



ALL THE world's A STAGE. 

The fool becomes a sage, 

The sage perhaps a fool, 
The saint becomes a villian. 

And kings forget to rule. 
No audience to see them here, 

No part to make or mar, 
No praise to win, no hiss to fear, 

They live for what i.hey are: 
And he who all the long play through 

In lowly parts has trod, 
In some lone chamber gets his due, 

And wins applause from God! 

Not in the midday's garish light. 

Is man revealed as man; 
The players are not those who write, 

And play what parts they can. 
But with the fall of kindly night. 
Before the eternal throne of might, 
Naked to God's unfailing sight, 

85 



ALL THE WORLD S A STAGE, 

They stand, and though they know it not 
Are scored the payment due their lot, 

And at the last great day of all 

Who knows on whom the prize may fall? 



86 



THE DIRGE 0' MARY DONOHUE. 

So you know Kate Gwynn, 

You'd be tellin' of the charm of her, — 
Then it's trouble that you're in, 

An' you'll come to know the harm of her. 
There's an arry in me bosom, 

An' there's pain along me heart 
But it's not for Kate I'm grievin', 

Tho 'twas she that shot the dart. 
For 'twas me an' Mary Donohue, 

Had it settled that we'd wed, 
An' I loved her more than life itself, — 
But that's all gone an' dead. 

For I met Kate Gwynn, 

An' oh, the fiashin' glance she had; 
An' she wore me courage thin, 

It was precious little chance I had. 
With an arry through me bosom. 

An' a shakin' of me heart, 
It was quick good bye to Mary, 
When Kate had shot her dart. 

87 



THE DIRGE O MARY DONOHUE. 

'Twas good bye to Mary Donohue, 
Whom I'd truly sworn to wed, 

An' she loved me more than life itself, — 
But that's all gone an' dead. 

For I'd met Kate Gwynn, 

The dashin' airy maid she is, 
An' she's handsomer than sin, 
The floutin', artful jade she is. 

With an arry through me bosom 

An' a proudly beatin' heart. 
For 'twas Kate I thought was wounded, 

But 'twas I that caught the dart. 
'Twas me an' Mary Donohue, — 
Oh, the tender things we'd said ; 
Ah, sweeter things than life itself, — 
But that's all gone an' dead. 

For I'd met Kate Gwynn, 

I was dancin' in the train of her. 
With her proudly tilted chin, ' 



THE DIRGE O MARY DONOHUE. 

An' the schemin', fickle brain of her. 
With an arry through me bosom, 

An' her foot upon me heart, 
An' poor gentle Mary Donohue 

Grievin' out her life apart. 
Little thought I then o' Mary, 

An' 'twas naught to me she said, 

But she .loved me more than life itself, 

An' now she's gone, an' dead! 

An' I know Kate Gwynn, 

An' the easy, breezy smiles of her, 
An' me foul an' ugly sin, 

An' the cruel, heartless wiles of her. 
With an arry through me bosom. 
An' me heart in gnawin' pain. 
An' the thoughts o' Mary Donohue 

A burnin' up me brain. 
Oh, the gentle, quiet way she dead. 
The lovin' things she said, 

89 



THE DIRGE O MARY DONOHUE. 

An' the rose I planted where she sleeps, 
All pale an' cold an' dead. 

Yes, I know Kate Gwynn, 

An' the proud an' lordly ways of her. 
An' the haste the world is in 
To fill the air with praise of her. 
With an arry through me bosom. 
An' me heart in burnin' shame, 
An' Kate a-carin' only 

For the sport that's in the game. 
Naught cares she for Mary Donohue, 

An' the stone above her head, 

But the curse o' God'll find her. 

An' I would that I were dead. 



90 



TO FANCY. 

For him who to sweet Fancy's gentle hands 
The guidance of his heart and mind commits, 
Unto what distant realms his spirit flits, 

What rich emotions come, what visions grand! 

Full oft, at midnight hours, at her command, 
Have I essayed the heights where Wisdom 

sits, 
Or wrapt in reveries, have felt the fits 

Of stranger passions, or high conquests planned. 

With magic song she's calmed my vengeful 
wrath, 
And with the martial clarion thrilled my 

blood ; 
With her in glades of fairyland I've stood. 
And toward the steeps of fame have ta'en the 
path. 

With her as guide, o'er flowery meads I've trod; 
Strange revelries have moved my heart to 
glee. 

91 



TO FANCY 

Sweet memories long lost return to me, 
And holy thoughts have turned my soul to God 

And pain has come, and biting vain regret, 
And stern despair has led me by the hand. 
And I have seen gaunt death stalk through the 
land, 

And heard remorse sigh sadly to forget ; 

Seen mothers bending o'er their cherished dead, 
With sweet affection jeweled in their tears; 
Have heard the child cry out for sv/ifter years, 

And old men grieving that their youth is fled. 

Strange mistress of our ever- varying mood, 
Sweet comforter, and dire avenger, thou. 
Full long I've followed thee, and follow now, 

To taste thine evil, as I taste thy good. 

Yet this I know, — that if at thy behest 
We follow ever on thy flying feet 
. Thou teachest always by thy lessons sweet 
That only love and goodness lead to rest. 

92 



LOST LAKE. 

Lost Lake — you've been there — here's my hand! 

And my heart with it ! I don't know 
Your name,— nor care — you understand 

The soul of me — the rest can go. 

You know that_water, jewel blue, 

Ringed round with world-old, silent woods, 

And the wild crags looming over you, 
A-gleam in the sunHght's lavish floods. 

And the beauty, silence, loneliness, 

That breathe, and steal, and rush on you, 

And dreams the tongue cannot express. 
And thoughts that rend your heart in two. 

And how mysterious voices speak 

Out of those stately, solemn woods 
And up from lake and down from peak, 

Where the spirit of the ages broods. 

And what you knew is all forgot. 
And what forgot is known again, 

93 



LOST LAKE. 

And things that all your life you've thought 
Too strange to solve at once seem plain. 

You know it, friend, — the^joy of it, 
The scent of pine, the leap of trout. 

The dancing waves, the birds that flit. 
And the rugged mountains massed about. 

You need'nt tell me how you went, — 
I know the fevered way you came, 

Those who go there the gods have sent. 
And the road we travel's much the same. 

Somewhere within the wilderness 
That hides our shining lake away, 

Hunting or fishing, might I guess. 
Too keen on sport, you lost your way. 

And when at last you would retrace 
Your devious way to camp and friend, 

The baffling forest showed no place 
You recognized, — and had no end. 

94 



LOST LAKE. 



Lost! and you smiled, and wandered on! 

Lost! and you figured out your trail! 
And "Lost" and "Lost," and "Lost and gone, 

You heard the forest voices rail. 
The forest changed to timber fall, 

And stubborn hope became despair; 
And thicket, swamp and bog were all 

The answers granted to your prayer. 

Lost! and your rifle weighed you down. 

Lost! and your feet seemed shod with lead; 
Till with fevered eye, and weary frown 

Your heart grew chill with nameless dread. 
You shouted! Silence made reply, 

You shot! and echoes yelled retort, 
And on you stumbled, wondering why, — 

And when the end, and in what sort. 

You rested, till your thoughts came clear, 
And rested, till they scorched your brain; 

You slept , and woke again to fear, — 
And feared yourself to sleep again. 

95 



LOST LAKE. 

And stumbling, plodding, reeling on, 
Faint, ragged, fevered, soul awry. 

Half mad, half dead, at length you won 
The grassy uplands near the sky. 

And then, refreshed, you climbed a crest 
That seemed to top the very world. 

Where eagles screamed about their nest, 
And mists of brewing tempest curled. 

And east you looked — the way you'd gone, — 

Into a rolling sea of trees. 
That stretched away, and on, and on 

Into unmeasured distances. 

And westwai'd — giant rocks, and snow, 
And heaps of stone the snow-slides make ; 

And grassy slopes, and far below 
The gleam and shimmer of the lake. 

You know that water, jewel blue 

Ringed round with dark, mysterious woods; 
And how its face smiles up at you 

Through all the sunshine's golden floods. 

96 



LOST LAKE. 

It spoke to you, — of joy and peace! 

It called you to its quiet breast. 
It bade your spirit take release 

From toil and care, and come, and rest! 

You went, — it matters little how. 

You went, — you never reasoned why. 
If life were sweet, still must you go; 

If die you must, 'twas there you'd die. 

You went, and dreamed along its shore. 

You fished, and searched its limpid deep. 
You drank in secret ways its lore 

Of centuries long fast asleep. 

You shot the deer that sniffed the flood. 
And trapped the grouse within the wood, 

Till you grew faint at shedding blood 
And nothing killed except for food. 

Your strength came back, — and yet you stayed, 
To watch another sunrise break ; 
97 



LOST LAKE. 

To see another twilight fade ; 

Yet one more starhght tramp to take. 

And there earth's spirit spoke to you, 
And told your spirit what it loved ; 

And your own heart you came to know, 
And how the twain together moved. 

And then at last you left the place, 
Called by the hunger for your kind. 

You followed brawling streams that race, 
And fall, and break, and twist, and wind, 

A cruel course, through gorge and glen. 
And over cHffs, and down through vale. 

To find at length the haunts of men, 
And hear their voices, greet their hail! 

If so you went, and so you came, 

Then here's my hand again, my friend. 

The road we travelled's much the same, 
And makes us brothers to the end. 

98 



LOST LAKE. 

The lake was ours, — we never told 

Landmarks, direction, where, nor how. 

But fools came there in search of gold, 
And any fool can find it now. 

It's just six hours from town by train ; 

You lounge in Pullmans all the way. 
If we should seek its shores again 

There are three hotels where we could stay. 

But we, — what's that? You went by train! 
Then I'm the fool, for talking so. 

You've seen the place? Please don't explain- 
That' s not the Lost Lake that I know. 

You basked in hammocks, where I lay 
Beneath the pines on starry nights, 

And where I heard the wolves' hoarse bay 
You drowsed to music's soft delights. 

You read your mail, and danced your dance! 
You shot a deer, — with guide and dog! 
99 



LOST LAKE. 

You hired a boat, and tried a chance 
At trout, — with fly and rubber frog! 

You know Lost Lake, you say, — Perhaps! — 
Its charm, its sports, — and what they cost! 

But my lake's not on railroad maps, 
The Lost Lake that I know is lost! 



100 



THE SPIRIT OF IT. 

He lives the best who fights the best 

When the battle is the sternest. 
He dies the best, within whose breast 

Each heart throb is in earnest. 
"Not for yourself, but for the cause," 

Is the watchword of the stron^^est, 
And the truest men of all the wars 

Are not those who live the longest. 



101 



AT THE RACES. 

A fool and his money— you've heard the old saying; 
And that's why my dollars on horses I'm laying. 
A little excitement is good for the blood, 
Though I sually bet on the worst in the stud. 
To tell yj)U the truth, for a race I don't care, 
But it's pp.rt of a gentleman's trade to be there ; 
It costs me much money, but I take my delight 
In pretending to wisdom, and dressing just right! 



102 



